


Floored

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Boot Worship, Breathplay, Cock & Ball Torture, D/s, Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Impact Play, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Punishment, funishment, implied pet play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold just shakes his head, fond. "This is what happens when you let him on the furniture." (Or: John likes to push his luck.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floored

Sometimes Grace's house feels unreal to John, like he must be dreaming it up while lying in a ditch somewhere. It's too airy and bright and cheerful, too comfortable for somebody like John who's spent his life sleeping on thin mattresses and concrete floors.

When John mentioned it, half-joking, Harold frowned, an endearing crease appearing in his forehead. "Do you want to sleep on the bare floor?" he asked, tentative and doubtful, as though John were speaking a foreign language and Harold wanted to make certain he understood.

John didn't. Doesn't. It's just that sometimes he finds it hard to believe he can have all this, that it won't be yanked out from under his feet.

It makes him test the limits. 

To be clear, it isn't that John doesn't think kissing Harold on the couch is enough. It's plenty, more than he'd thought he deserved. (Grace and Harold are insistent that John deserves good things, kisses and cuddles, and even deliberately entertaining thoughts to the contrary feels disloyal.)

And yet, there's always that edge in John's mind, a feeling like he's about to fall. He'd rather dive in than stumble or be pushed over. So John shoves - specifically, he pushes his hips forward, fleetingly pressing his hard cock against Harold's thigh.

Harold pauses. His grip tightens in John's hair, and he moves away. He's still smiling, but it has a wry edge now. "So that's how it is?"

"Sorry," John says. He probably would be sorry, if Harold pressed the issue.

Harold just shakes his head, fond. "This is what happens when you let him on the furniture," he says, to the room at large, or possibly to Grace who is a little way away, painting.

Grace isn't listening, though. She has a brush in hand and headphones in her ear and a blissfully focussed expression. John loses himself a little bit just looking at her. He jerks away, moves his eyes back to Harold.

Harold is still watching Grace, awe written clearly in his gaze. John cracks a tiny smile. He knows that feeling.

A moment later, Harold brings his attention back to John. "What am I going to do with you?" Harold murmurs. It's a rhetorical question, though. Even as he says it, Harold pushes John down, directing him to lie on his back holding his legs apart.

John shivers under Harold's gaze, with expectation and the barest touch of fear as Harold turns away. The fear dissipates as he hear Harold rummaging, disappears entirely when Harold faces him again with a riding crop in hand. 

(The crop lives in a little cloth holder, next to the remote control. Grace bought the holder on Etsy: it has a pattern with little robots disclaiming THE COMPUTER IS YOUR FRIEND. Harold pretends he hates it, but he doesn't really: he knows Grace was thinking of him when she bought it, of _them_.)

Harold warms John up with sweet little hits on the sensitive insides of John's thighs. John's still wearing pants, so the strikes barely even sting, by his standards. He can feel them, though, feel his skin slowly getting hotter, blood rushing to the spots.

Once Harold judges John ready, he gives John a choice. "Pants on or off?"

That's a tough one. Pants off hurts worse, and also has more chance of John being allowed to come. Pants on means John is likelier to be forbidden to come, or doing laundry if he comes in the pants, whereas if he comes on Harold or the crop he'll probably be ordered to lick it off.

The least appealing item on that list of consequences is laundry. "Off," John says. Harold waves the crop, granting him permission to wriggle out of them. John folds them neatly before resuming position.

When Harold lays the first hit on his balls, John yells. He could hold it in, but they like to hear him.

Harold smacks the head of John's cock next, making John yelp. 

Grace takes out one headphone and turns her head to them. "Color?" she says, a bit too loud over the music she's still listening to.

"Green," John says, eyes tearing up involuntarily as Harold hits him so accurately, so _right_. "Green."

Harold switches focus then, hitting John's hole, his ass and the underside of his thighs. That's a different kind of pain, more burning, less urgent. It lets John catch his breath and ride the endorphin high before Harold goes back to hitting his balls.

There's a game Grace likes to play where they put John on hands and knees, blindfold him, take turns hitting him and let him guess who hit him and using what implement. John's not 100% yet but he's getting there, and he can always tell Harold from Grace, even when they're being sneaky and trying to imitate each another's style. Grace breathes differently when she's hitting people.

"Shall I keep hitting you until you come?" Harold's voice is purely polite, but there's heat in his eyes, a little spark that flickers every time he hits John.

John spreads his legs a little bit wider. "Whatever you want." He's still hard, getting harder. Harold knows how to make punishment strokes feel as good as pleasure strokes. Or maybe that's just how John reacts to him and Grace. 

Harold gives a little huff of breath, not quite a laugh. "Alright. Knees."

John turns over and drops to the floor, a controlled fall. He rolls up into kneeling position, remembers just in time not to nuzzle Harold's crotch before he's given an order.

"Oh, go ahead," Harold says, smiling widely now. He opens his legs so there's room for John to nuzzle in, open Harold's pants with his mouth.

Meanwhile, Harold's foot finds John's bare cock and balls. Harold's wearing his indoor shoes, light, clean leather that John shines for him. The sole is textured enough that rubbing against it would be painful even if John's cock weren't sore from his previous punishment.

John groans around Harold's dick, sucks harder and thrusts his hips just enough to make Harold really grind his foot down.

For a few moments, Harold lets him suck at his own pace. Then Harold pushes John's head down, forcing him to take Harold's cock deep into his throat. "Stay like this until you come," Harold says, stroking his nape.

It doesn't take long. John's personal best for holding his breath is 153 seconds. In less than half a minute, though, John already feels the adrenaline rush of asyphixation. It makes everything stand out, come to life, Harold's taste in his mouth, the texture of the carpet against his knees and the throb of his cock under Harold's foot.

John closes his eyes and shudders for the long moment it takes Harold to leave his mouth. Harold doesn't stay out for long: he lets John drag in two desperate breaths before ruthlessly fucking his mouth, pushing John's face up and down on Harold's cock until it twitches and spills.

Harold gives John a moment to swallow before tapping the underside of John's chin with the crop. "Cleanup, now."

John acknowledges by dipping his head to kiss the flat part of the crop, the one with which Harold hit him earlier. Then he returns to Harold's crotch, noses close to find any flecks of come he may have missed. He feels rather satisfied when there are none.

Then John lies belly down on the carpet. His cock stings where it's touching the fiber, sensitized, but John pays it no mind. He has Harold's foot in his hand, and he licks his own come off the carefully maintained leather, methodical.

Once everything is cleaned, John lies for a second, revelling in the warmth of the room around him, how comfortable he feels in his skin even battered and sore as it is.

There's a nudge to his ribs. "Turn over," Grace says, and John does. She hikes up the skirt of her sundress, bare underneath, and settles herself where John can eat her out. 

"I don't know, Harold," Grace says a few moments later, breathy. She arranges her skirt and moves to sit on the carpet cross-legged. "He just seems so forlorn here on the floor." John wiggles around enough to lay his head on her thigh and look up soulfully.

"Truly miserable," Harold says, badly hiding a smile. "Alright, come here." 

John shuffles over, lays his head and arms in Harold's lap and ecstatically submits to being petted.


End file.
